She’d come so close to walking away.
Cat finished her meal and leaned back in her chair to aid digestion. When she’d asked him about dinner, she’d had no intention of actually sharing a meal with him. But he’d seemed so…haunted. Vulnerable. This man intrigued her. He gave off a moody, distant vibe, but when he spoke to her, there was an energy that pulled her in and urged her to linger and look deeper. She craved to know more about him, and over dinner, he’d been the perfect companion. Besides his sharp wit, he was a good listener, holding eye contact and asking pointed questions about her lifestyle.
So far, it had been the best date she’d ever had.
He groaned and duplicated her movement. “I’m stuffed. Even if they came over and put the most perfect cannoli on this table, I’d have to say no.”
“Then we’re going to need to walk it off,” she announced. “Because I’m not letting you leave tonight without taking you to the best dessert place on Earth.”
His eyes widened. “You talk a big game, Ms. Winsor. You can’t bluff with so much at stake.”
She preened with satisfaction. “Trust me, I don’t bluff when it comes to pastries. I’ve been going there regularly for months, and it’s become an almost religious experience.”
His gaze narrowed with intensity. “Now you’re just turning me on.”
She laughed, but her cheeks flushed. She ducked her head and rummaged around in her purse. “We need a brisk walk first. Oh, unless you have to leave? I’m sorry, I didn’t even check with you.”
“No, I don’t have to leave,” he said softly. His smooth, velvet voice shot tingles down her spine. “What are you doing?”
“Oh, here’s my half of the bill.” She shoved some euros across the table, but his fierce frown stopped her.
“This is my treat,” he said. “You were my honored guest, and I appreciate your company.”
Pleasure swamped her. She nodded and put the money back in her wallet. “Then I’ll just say grazie.”
“Prego.”
Her thighs tightened. His gaze seemed to delve deep into her soul and find all the hidden, empty spaces inside. Her body whipped to life, and her core softened, growing hot and damp. She hadn’t experienced this type of chemistry in so long she wasn’t sure what to do about it. She pulled her gaze from his, catching the glint of amusement dancing in those onyx eyes, and rose from the chair. He paid the bill and walked her out.
The night was ripe with earthy scents and the soft glow of moonlight spilling from the dark sky. They fell into an easy stride, walking down the narrowed cobblestone paths, the beautiful lilt of Italian voices mingling in the air. “You never told me what your actual job is,” she said. He stiffened beside her, as if he didn’t want to answer the question. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to tell me. I’m just curious.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m here to do some research on an acquisition. I just can’t discuss details.”
She nodded. “I get it. Maybe regarding a property opportunity? It’s harder than people think to just visit Milan for a week and get everything done. Americans are so demanding about wanting things completed yesterday.”
“Are you full American? Or is there some Italian blood lurking?”
“English, with some Scottish and French. Yet I feel as if I belong here in Italy. This country speaks to me. When I began my travel, I planned on visiting several places to get the full European experience, yet once I arrived here, I never left.”
“But you’re from New York, correct? I can hear your accent.”
“Yes. You, too?”
“How did you know?” he asked.
“One Easterner can recognize another. Say coffee.”
He laughed. “Coffee.”
“Yep, definitely a New Yorker. We say it like cawfee. I get made fun of all the time.”
“It could be worse. I could be a Red Sox fan and talk like a Bostonian.”
“Ouch. Sorry, Mets fan here. But I’d prefer Boston over the Yankees any day.”
“I guess this is the end of a beautiful friendship.”
She couldn’t help it. She actually giggled, which wasn’t like her at all, but it just spilled out from her mouth before she could stop it. He stared at her, a big grin on his face, and the energy hummed and danced around them, encircling them in a tight hug. Their arms swung close together, fingers barely brushing. Like a schoolgirl, her breath came out in a puffy rush, her skin prickling with awareness at the almost touch.
“Do you plan on going back home?” he asked quietly.
“I did. Time began slipping by faster than I expected. I have to make a decision if I’m going back to my old life, or if I’ve outgrown it.”
He seemed to consider her words. “Maybe you can go back but be different. Maybe it’s not about the location, but how you’ve changed inside.”
“Maybe you’re right. Here we are.”
The storefront sign was done in bold, bright red: La Dolce Famiglia. The window of the shop was better than a toy store. The display was lined with bright sunflowers, and endless displays of various pastries seduced onlookers—dusted with powdered sugar, shells crisp and firm, flaky with butter and rich with homemade creams. The little bell tinkled as they walked in. The scent of baked bread, rich chocolate, tangy lemon, and sweet sugar wafted in the air. Even at this late hour, the place was crowded, lines jamming the counters, and the back filled with chattering groups and families sipping cappuccino and snacking on pastries at high round tables.
“Here, I’ll take you around first before we get in line so you can decide.”
He turned to her, eyes wide. “I may never get out of here alive.”
She smiled with agreement. “That’s why I can’t seem to move out of Milan. Come on.”
She led him past the cases, joining him to kneel so they didn’t miss the bottom rows of treats. From the torto al chocolato that held a touch of wetness from the decadent richness of chocolate, to the fresh fruit tartlettes lined up like mini soldiers with strawberries, blueberries, and lemon, to the boxes of firm, moist ricciarelli—the delicate almond cookies covered in powdered sugar, the choices were vast and the decision difficult. Cat watched him carefully. His dessert would tell her more about his personality than a dozen pointed questions.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He cocked his head. “Why do I feel like I’m about to take a test?”
Damn, he was sharp. It was as if he easily guessed all her inner thoughts. She laughed and waved her hand in dismissal. “Not a test. Just curious.”
“Why?”
“Desserts tell a lot about a person.”
His brows shot up. Suddenly, he leaned in, closing the distance between them. She took in the roughness of stubble hugging his square jaw, the bold slash of his nose, the high arch of his forehead, the liquid blackness of his pupils that hypnotized and pulled her in. His spicy, masculine scent danced in her nostrils. She sucked in a breath at the raw intimacy within those precious few seconds. Those carved lips quirked slightly at the left corner and her belly dropped. “I’ll take that challenge. Let’s do this.”
With an arrogant grin, he tugged her gently into the line. When it was their turn, he pointed directly to the pastry of his choice.
Ah, the sfogliatelle.
She’d pegged him for the chocolate torte, but that had been too direct. Her second choice was the canoli, but she admitted it was too simple for him. The intricacy of his choice pleased her. Her mind analyzed all the options and sifted through in her usual favorite game. She loved trying to figure out people by their food or drink choice. Wine, especially, since she was a vintner’s daughter, but since Milan, she had switched her skills to dessert.
“And you, Caterina? What’s your choice?”
She shook herself out of the trance and smiled. “The panforte, please. That one.” She picked out the slice crammed with hazelnuts, already salivating over the dense, spicy treat. “Grazie.”
They took their wrapped snacks on plates and found a table, settling into the stools. Neither of them moved to eat at first. Instead, they took in the perfection of the pastries, enjoying the visual stimuli and taking a deep breath of the rich mix of flavors.
“I had you pegged for the chocolate tart,” he said.
She burst into laughter. “I had you pegged as one, too! And I’m not wrong often.”
“I guess both of us have secrets.” His stark words made her shiver, as if he gave her a warning. Her tummy clenched and she crossed her legs, trying to ignore the quick surge of heat that seemed to burst between them in regular intervals. Who would’ve thought she’d meet a man in a local bar and have it turn into the longest, most perfect date she’d ever experienced?
She forked up a piece of her treasure, closing her eyes as she enjoyed the explosion of dense bread, spicy nuts, sweet fruits, and the mix of gorgeous honey coating her tongue.
He cleared his throat and shifted on his stool. She fought a blush as she realized her moan had made him a bit uncomfortable. “Mi dispiace.”
Humor lit his gaze. “No need to be sorry for enjoying your dessert.” He cut off a piece of his pastry, exposing the semi-sweet, heavy ricotta cheese baked into layers of thin, crispy dough and smothered with powdered sugar. “Now, tell me what my sfogliatelle tells you about me.”
She tapped the fork against her mouth. “Well, you have layers.”
He snorted. “We all have layers.”
She tossed him a mock glare. “Are you going to argue right away with my insights or let me finish?”
His lip twitched. “Go ahead.”
“As I was saying, you have layers. Some are easier to figure out than others. You put out a neutral, cool type of distance and don’t like to get to really know people. You don’t trust easily and prefer to depend only on yourself.” Ah, that got his attention. He stared at her with a hint of caution, as if she’d really surprised him. Cat warmed up to the game, excited she seemed to be on the right track. “But inside, there’s a sweetness, a vulnerability. You hate tapping into it, because it reminds you of something in your past that changed you. You’re much more complicated than you let on.”
He paused mid-bite, a deep frown creasing his brow. A strange energy whipped around him, a primitive type of male force that fascinated her, but he quickly got it under control and he was back to normal in seconds. An easy grin curved his lips. “Do you read tea leaves, too?”
“Nope. I dislike tea.”
“Along with grappa and espresso. Good to know.” He swallowed another bite, his tongue swiping off the sugar, and suddenly her blood steamed like hot lava and she had a crazy urge to lean across the table and kiss him. What would his full lips feel like against hers? Were his muscles as hard as they looked? Would he kiss her with a hint of violence, or surprise her with a stirring type of sweetness, like his dessert? “Ready for my analysis now?”
She swallowed and re-focused. “Sure.”
“The panforte is the traditional fruit cake that Americans usually mock for being bland, cheap, and too heavy. But the Italians have managed to master it to an art form, which is a quest for specific flavors to balance and play off each other in the ultimate taste.”
His words dripped with sensuality. His voice deepened and his gaze pinned her across the table, weaving a spell. Her heart pounded and her palms dampened. She tried to speak, but found her mouth too dry.
He lifted his fork. “May I?” he asked.
Still silent, she managed to nod. He broke off a piece, placing it on his tongue, then closed his eyes as he registered the flavors.
Cat swayed in her chair and realized she now knew exactly what it was like to swoon. Holy crap, he was seducing her with her own game and he didn’t even know it. Or maybe he did.
His eyes opened. “Ah, it’s a trick. At first, all the complicated textures and tastes can throw a person off and make them believe you’re a bundle of contradictions. Normally, this type of dessert would peg you as challenging, assertive, and a complete emotional mess.”
Her jaw dropped. “You got all that?”
“I’m not finished. The panforte is a trick. Because the goal of the dessert is to balance all that chaos into one perfect experience. This slice features ripe figs, a touch of orange peel, chocolate, hazelnuts, and is that clove? Coriander? Something to add spice. It’s a jumble, but somehow, it works to achieve one lasting note. Which means you’re actually quite stable. Quietly intelligent and not as flashy as people believe you are. In that way, you put on your own show and don’t allow too many people to see the real you. Yet your feelings run deep, and there’s something you’re craving. Something you haven’t found, something you’re still searching for with a kind of desperation.”
“And what do you think that something is?”
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The word dropped from his lips like a gunshot.
“Passion.”
Oh, my God. How could he possibly know that? Heat slithered in her veins, between her legs, tingling her breasts. Breathless, she held his gaze and waited. Seconds ticked by. What would happen next? What did she want to happen?
“Caterina! Ciao!”
The warm voice cut through their connection and put an end to the intense standoff. She turned, strangely relieved, her mouth breaking into a huge smile at the familiar figure. Rising from her chair, she stepped over and hugged the older woman, who wrapped her in strong arms and returned her embrace with full enthusiasm. “Mama Conte, I’m so glad I didn’t miss you. You’re working late.”
The matriarch of the pastry empire, La Dolce Famiglia, was a familiar presence in the Milan bakery. With her long grey hair twisted up in a bun, her features were classic and elegant, hinting at a shimmering beauty from youth. Generous laugh lines were carved into her olive skin. She wore wide-legged black pants and a simple white blouse on her petite frame. She suffered from arthritis and walked with a cane, but as the mother of four children and a powerful force in the food empire and business world, she cut a dynamic figure. From the first day Cat had stumbled into the bakery, Mama Conte had treated her with a nurturing warmth she desperately needed, until her regular visits were not only about the treats, but the company. The Conte family made her feel alive and welcome, and reminded her of her father, soothing some of the sting from missing him.
Her sharp brown gaze took in her companion, and she blew off Cat’s question with a generous smile and a humph. “Michael gives me a hard time but sometimes I crave being in the store. Talking to people was a critical part of our success. No one likes to eat good dessert alone. You need good conversation. Good company, si? Especially from handsome young men. Who is this, my child?”
“Oh, yes, this is Lee. I told him he had to experience the power of La Dolce Famiglia.”
Lee smiled warmly and shook her hand. “Signora Conte, a pleasure to meet you. Your bakery is extraordinary.”
“Grazie. Everyone calls me Mama Conte. I’m glad Caterina was able to share her love for a well baked dessert.” Her dark eyes held a mysterious glint. “Are you staying with us for a while, I hope?”
“A week. I’m here for work, but I was lucky enough to be saved from a lonely dinner tonight.”
Cat tried not to blush, but Mama Conte looked delighted. “Perfecto. Why don’t you both come to dinner Sunday afternoon? You both need a good home cooked meal. Too much fast food at cafés ruin the stomach.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, that’s so nice of you but we just met, and I don’t think—”
“You must come. One o’clock. I shall make you a special dessert.”
She glanced at Lee in embarrassment. Oh, my God, what if he had no interest in seeing her again? What if he was involved with someone else? She’d seen no ring but nowadays a woman never knew. Trying not to panic, she began to stammer like she always did when she got nervous. “Umm, Mama Conte, grazie, but Lee has work and I have, well I have—”
“Sundays are meant for pleasure and the Lord, not work.” Her booming voice brooked no argument. The woman beamed a smile, scribbled something on one of the business cards in her pocket and handed it to Lee. “You’ll need to take the funicular to my home in Bergamo, but it’s not too far.”
“Oh, but you see, I can’t because we—”
“We’d love to come.” Lee’s deep voice interrupted her pathetic attempts to reject the invitation. Her head swiveled around to stop him, to tell him he didn’t have to, but Mama Conte was already nodding with satisfaction.
“Bene! I must go, or Michael will worry.” She hugged and kissed her, then Lee, and walked out of her bakery with her head held high and a smooth grace, even with her slight limp.
“Caterina?”
She jerked around. “Yes?”
“Breathe. I think you’re freaking out.”
She half closed her eyes and groaned. “I’m so sorry, Lee. I didn’t know she was going to bully you into dinner with me. Listen, forget the whole thing. I’m going to tell her I got sick and you had to work, it’s absolutely no problem.”
A frown touched his brow. “Well, that would be a problem to me. Because I want to go to dinner with you and experience a real homemade meal at Mama Conte’s house.”
She blinked. “You do?”
“Of course. It’s a win-win. I get to spend more time with you, and I get to eat. Unless you don’t want to go with me?”
Her worries scattered away and left her with a sense of budding excitement. Her nerves tingled. “I do.”
He grinned. “Good. Then let’s finish up so I can walk you home.”
They ate their desserts and walked side by side. Crowds had thinned. Shops closed up. The click of her heels on the pavement and their whispered voices added a sense of intimacy to the stroll. He stopped outside her place.
“Thank you for a perfect evening,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He studied her in the darkness. His gaze drifted over her face, similar to a caress, and then he smiled. “Buona sera, Caterina.”
Tongue tied and ridiculously hoping for a kiss, she said her goodbye and dove for the door. Peeking out the window, she watched him pivot on his heel and disappear down the road. Feeling as if her head were stuffed with cotton balls, she drifted up the steps and walked inside. The scent of ripe roses hung heavy in the air.
She threw her purse on the table and stood in front of the flowers. Her fingers touched a velvet petal, and a shiver shot down her spine.
Presto.
Soon.
Who sent them? Did she have a secret admirer who’d been keeping his distance, afraid to approach? Normally, the thought would thrill her, but tonight, a strange uneasiness bubbled through her veins. Tonight had been special. For the first time, she’d met a man who intrigued her, and she didn’t want to break the spell by thinking of another unknown man lurking in the background.
The spell….
She gasped, her gaze falling on the violet-covered book.
Impossible. Just a coincidence. Right?
She thought of her list hidden under her mattress and shivered. She was on overload, and there was too much to think about right now. She’d get into her comfy pajamas, crawl into bed, and get some sleep.
Tonight, she would dream of seething dark eyes, rich panforte, and soul-stirring, carnal kisses.
Tomorrow, she would ponder the mystery of the flowers.